When We Were Bright and Beautiful(47)

With Marcus, I am cocky, someone I don’t recognize but don’t necessarily dislike. Look at me. Look at my face, my breasts, my hands. Look at my lips. In a crowd, his eyes track me from corner to corner. This is a whole new excitement, his watching. When I get too close, he sputters, fumbles, loses the thread. What were you saying, Cassie? I got distracted. That I can do this to a grown man is remarkable. At the same time, it’s not enough. But I don’t know if I can say I want more. Rather, am I allowed? I want more. I need more. The need is unbearable. I tell him this: More, Marcus. More.

Calling him the other night was a stupid, stupid mistake. Now that I’ve opened the door, Marcus Silver floods in like a tidal wave.





27


AN HOUR AFTER NATE’S CALL, I’M IN MY CAR, ON THE HIGHWAY, swept up in memories. How long will it take to shake Marcus this time? I press on the gas, only partially conscious of the cause and effect, that the weight of my foot is making the car move faster. I see the numbers on the speedometer tick up, hit eighty then ninety. I see myself weave through traffic. But I don’t feel my toes or my heel, my ankle or my leg. I don’t feel my body; I don’t feel anything.

Soon, I’m heading up Park, guided by the Valmont’s spire. Since April, the building has been on lockdown. The board voted to erect twelve-foot walls to keep out the press. Security was doubled. Now, the once-grand castle is bleak and forbidding. The stained-glass windows look like blacked-out eyes. The front door stands open and dark, the mouth of a monster.

“Hey, Cassie,” the valet says when I shut off the car.

Surprised by the breezy greeting, I look up. The man at my door isn’t Anton, but he leans into the backseat in a gesture I’ve seen Anton make hundreds of times. He’s Anton and not Anton, a second exposure grafted onto a photograph. This Anton is wearing a suit, but he’s younger and seems amused I can’t place him.

Then it hits me. “Oh my God, Joey. You’re working here?”

“Joseph.” He lowers his voice three octaves. “I started a few weeks ago.”

“Excuse me, Joseph. Or should I say Mr. Rivera? Jesus, you sound just like your dad. You look like him, too.”

I haven’t seen Joey in at least five years. He has his father’s poise and finesse, but he’s taller, skinnier. Holding my tote bag, he escorts me through the lobby, but stops when we reach the elevator. Only Anton rides with me all the way upstairs. In fact, I’m likely the only resident for whom he makes the extra effort.

“Congratulations on the job,” I tell him.

“Part-time overnight valet. Still have to run packages during the day. My dad is such a hard ass.” He looks pleased with himself. “But it’s a job.”

He doesn’t ask about my brothers. Just says “Have a nice evening” and steps back. We both raise a hand as the doors close. Suddenly, I see a camera flash, like a strobe light, in the corner of my eye. My vision blurs. An afterimage burns on my retina. It’s me but in memory, years younger, almost sixteen. I’m walking past Nate’s bedroom, where he, Billy, and Joey are sitting on the floor, stoned. Nate shuffles a deck of cards. The TV blares. On the screen a naked woman spreads her legs. None of the boys are paying attention. Seeing them together, I get panicky. Joey works for his dad a few days a week. Occasionally, he stops by our house to get high with my brothers. They watch porn; rather, porn plays in the background.

Back in June, when I first spoke to Haggerty, I didn’t bring up Billy’s extracurricular activities. I wanted to present him as pure of heart, mind, and body. So, I didn’t mention that many elite runners (former elite runners) are habitual stoners. Athletes who compete at Billy’s level truly are machines. The mental and physical pressure is punishing in ways we civilians can’t conceive. Marijuana modulates heartrate and stabilizes mood swings. Billy vapes, which his coaches ignored when he was breaking records, but once Diana Holly came along, and he started winning less (never say losing), they told him to buck up or get out. Ultimately, the weed doesn’t matter. It’s legal, and no worse than alcohol. So why describe him as a pothead whose habit got him booted off the team? As Eleanor says, why borrow trouble?

Same with pornography. For our generation, porn is easily accessible and always available, a utilitarian activity to blow off steam. It’s different for Eleanor and Lawrence, who weren’t raised on the internet. It would disturb them that Nate was eight the first time he saw a TripleX video. Billy was likely younger. (I was ten, but it was inadvertent. I clicked the wrong movie on Nate’s phone.) For my parents’ generation, porn is dirty. The men who watch it, sketchy. Nor would it occur to them that women watch voluntarily. My brothers and their friends, however, make no such judgments.

“Cassie!” In my memory, Nate calls to me, but I keep moving.

“Heading out!” I shout. I have nowhere to go but can’t be around Joey.

At this point, Marcus and I have been together for almost a year. By together, I mean he slips away every other week, and we go someplace we won’t be recognized. Typically, it’s late afternoon, and we ride the subway separately, all the way downtown to the Financial District. Then we meet in the back of a diner. Never the same one, naturally. We sit across from each other, order Diet Cokes and fries, and grind out my homework assignments. This is when I feel most like a couple. Two people in love, solving problems, flirting, showing off. Together, we tackle eye imagery in King Lear, algebra of polynomials, militarism of Mesopotamian city-states, the impact force of falling objects. “You know,” he says, “it wasn’t so long ago that I did all this.” But Marcus is older. It was ages ago, a whole different century. “Back then,” I tease him, “the world wasn’t even in color. It was still black-and-white.” Neither of us care about his age. Lots of times, I’m more mature.